A License to Wed: Rebellious Brides (9 page)

“What would you like?” she asked. “Are you well? You seem…distracted.”

“I am a bit, I suppose. A friend I was supposed to see when I came to Paris has mysteriously vanished.”

“Vanished?” Her smoky gray eyes widened. “When? Where?”

“His name is Hamilton Sparrow.” He watched her intently. “Perhaps you had occasion to meet him at one of your routs?”

She seemed to turn the name over in her mind, but her expression remained blank. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him.”

A fist closed hard around his heart, confirming his darkest suspicions. “The name is not familiar to you at all?”

“Hamilton Sparrow?” She shook her head. “No, not at all.”

Fighting to mask any outward sign of emotion, he pretended to survey the tidy, polished space with its elaborate décor, fine china, and well-dressed patrons. “What is the meal today?”

“It is for you to choose,” she said, handing over the placard she’d been perusing. “You are not obliged to eat whatever the innkeeper’s wife has in her pot.”

He realized it was a menu of sorts, offering a selection of dishes including poultry, meats, hams, and a variety of sauces. The waiter returned to take their order. He decided on a poultry dish with some sauce he’d never heard of, and Elle said she’d have the same.

The waiter returned with champagne. Will stole a glance at Elle. Did she remember that last time they’d taken champagne together? He would certainly never forget it.

“Very nice,” he remarked, sipping from his flute, savoring the smooth and lively taste on his tongue.

“Indeed.” She toasted him with her glass. “And we have the revolution to thank for it.”

“How so?”

“Once the revolution was over, the unemployed chefs from all of the great aristocratic houses found themselves without a situation. So they put their skills to use by opening these establishments.”

“Very enterprising. It’s ironic the French fought so hard to rid themselves of the aristocracy only to try to emulate them.”

“But there is a difference,” she said. “Look about you; now everyone can enjoy the privilege of dining like the aristocracy, instead of a select few.”

He studied her for a moment. “Do not tell me that you, the daughter of a marquess, believe the peerage has outlived its usefulness.”

“Laurent most certainly did.”

“An unusual point of view from a member of the nobility.” Jealousy punctured his ribs at the mention of her late husband. “Have you adopted his revolutionary ideals?”

They were interrupted by the arrival of the food, which proved to be delicious, especially when washed down with the champagne.

“What of your work at the Home Office?” she asked as they ate. “Do you enjoy it?”

“It isn’t particularly interesting.” He kept his answer deliberately vague. “My work involves a great deal of correspondence and filing.”

She sipped her champagne, her eyes alight with interest. “Surely there must be one or two intriguing aspects of the job to engage someone like you.”

Her interest in his work seemed to go beyond the polite. The hair on his arms rose. She denied knowing Sparrow, yet she clearly had met with the man at least once. And then there was Duret, who’d been mad with jealousy at their first meeting, but the other evening had eagerly handed Elle into his care, practically inviting him to make free with her.

He couldn’t avoid the obvious conclusion: Elle worked for Duret, who’d tasked her with extracting information from a Home Office clerk who might possess English intelligence.

“You have such a keen mind,” she was saying, “I can’t imagine you being content to file papers and write correspondence.”

“Those of us who must engage in enterprise do so to put food in our bellies,” he said stiffly. “The question of whether or not we enjoy the exertion is irrelevant when our very survival depends upon the coin we earn.”

“Surely your family would help you if you found yourself in dire straits.”

“My brother, Giles, most certainly would, but I prefer to make my own way.”

“Your brother?” Her brows drew together. “What of your father? Wouldn’t he assist you?”

“Giles is now the earl.”

“Oh!” Her eyes widened. “When did your father—?”

“Last year. He passed following a brief illness.”

“I am sorry to hear of it. His loss must have been difficult for you.”

“Ours was not the easiest of relationships. My father never quite knew what to do with a bastard son. He was outraged when I took a position at the Home Office.”

She sipped her champagne. “Nobility is not meant to sully its hands with work.”

“I am nobility’s bastard. The rules are different for people like me.”

She put her glass down. “You are as much a gentleman as your brother, title or not.”

His insides twisted at her earnest expression, when he knew damn well she was dissembling. His bastardy had certainly been of consequence when it came time for her to take a husband. He’d been good enough for a quick romp to satisfy her sexual curiosity, but he was obviously beneath her touch when it came to marriage.

“But titles do matter,” he said lightly. “You married a
vicomte
, after all. Actions do speak louder than words.”

Her expressive eyes widened in surprise, and then he watched as she tried to wrangle her growing outrage into submission. Hiding her feelings had never been Elle’s forte. “You are the last person on this earth who should pass judgment on me, especially after your appalling behavior.”

Her words stung, but he forced an even tone. “I offered you marriage and you chose your Frenchman instead.”

She spoke in a low, furious undertone. “Is that what you tell yourself so that you might sleep better at night?”

He threw his hands up in exasperation. “I was willing to make you my wife.” He’d been far more than willing; he’d desperately wanted to wed her. “What more did you want of me?”

She shook her head, her plush lips twisted with disgust. “Not a thing. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your numismatic pursuits. I can look after myself.”

“You’ve done a fine job of that thus far.” The cutting words, cold and precise as a blade, slid out of his mouth before he could contain them. “Marrying a man who took you to a country that was dangerous for anyone with noble blood. The consequences of his carelessness led to your imprisonment for five years.”

Temper flashed in her eyes like gray lightning. “Do not dare speak ill of my late husband. Laurent did not choose to die and leave me alone. Unlike you, who couldn’t even be bothered to answer any of my letters after you fled London without a word.”

He opened his mouth to retort but paused when he caught the meaning of her words. “What letters?”

“The ones I sent you after that evening at Langtry. Although I obviously needn’t have bothered.” She huffed a short laugh that contained no mirth. “You couldn’t put enough distance between us after that night.”

“You sent me letters?” He learned forward, his heart beating faster. “When? How many?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I suppose you are going to tell me you did not receive them.”

“When precisely did you send these letters?”

“Perhaps one of my messages could have been mislaid, but not all of them.”

“When?” he demanded in a hard tone.

“I penned them before I married Laurent.”

He took a deep breath. “You sent word of your impending marriage?”

“Several letters.” She searched his face. “I sent several.”

“I never received any letter from you. Not a one. I swear it.” His heart pounded so furiously he could hardly breathe. “What did they say?”

She went very pale, and her body seemed to vibrate with restrained emotion. “It is of no consequence now.” The words were shaky. “It is all long over and done with.”

“It matters to me.”

She rose and so did he, since a gentleman never remained sitting when a lady stood. “I feel unwell. I must go.” She seemed agitated and her color had not improved. He paid for their meal and escorted her to her waiting carriage.

“Elle,” he said softly. “Please tell me what the letters said.”

Her footman opened the carriage door and lowered the step. She took the servant’s proffered hand and stepped into the conveyance. Sitting, she reached forward and shut the door before the servant could, and then addressed Will through the window.

“I cannot recall the content of the letters,” she said faintly. “It was all so long ago, you understand.” She faced forward, giving him an excellent view of her aristocratic profile—the smooth nose and impossibly carved cheekbones—and rapped on the roof, signaling for the coachman to move.

He watched the conveyance make its way through the crowded sloppy streets, disappearing into the throng of coaches and gentlemen on horseback. She’d dismissed him much as she had six years ago, once again deciding she had no use for him.

But the idea that she had sent letters consumed him. Had the letters said anything beyond informing him of her impending marriage? He’d been dispatched to Brussels on an urgent Home Office matter immediately after her birthday, and the assignment had taken several weeks to complete. During that time, Elle’s letters would have gone to his father’s house. Even if their contents were no longer relevant, he had a powerful desire to know what she’d written.

He returned to his hotel and immediately penned a note, which he posted that very afternoon. As he climbed the stairs back to his chamber, he felt a rush of satisfaction. It was only a matter of time now before he learned what Elle had written.

Elle couldn’t breathe. How was it possible?

She stared blindly out of the carriage window, the shops and carts and people outside a passing blur. He hadn’t received her letters. All these years, she’d believed he’d ignored them, that he’d been too wrapped up in his old coins to come back and save her. Save them.

She covered her face with her hands. How had she made such a terrible mistake? Her miscalculation had ruined everything. She ran it all back in her mind, and the pieces began to come together, taking the shape of an awful truth.

She dropped her hands from her face. No, she hadn’t made the mistake all on her own. She’d been deliberately misled.

“Elle, dance with me.” Tristan Fitzroy, Lord Darling offered his arm. “Before one of these other swells tries to steal you away again.”

Elle bristled at Tristan’s show of possessiveness. They’d grown up together, his estate bordered her father’s, and Tristan made no secret of his desire to make her his wife, but the only man she’d ever wanted was Will, if only she could find him.

She excused herself and threaded her way through the crowd in the ballroom, discreetly following Will’s father, the Earl of Huntington. There’d been no sign of Will since her birthday. No one seemed to know where he was, and her increasingly desperate letters to him these past several weeks had gone unanswered. Will’s continuing silence was most uncharacteristic. He must not have received them.

Her heart beat faster as she closed in on Huntington. She knew little about the earl but was inclined to seek information from the only person who could offer it.

She used a far door to leave the ballroom and hurried in Huntington’s direction, keen to make it appear that they’d encountered each other entirely by accident. She rounded a corner and relief wound through her when she saw the earl coming toward her. As he drew close, she dropped a curtsy.

“You’re Aldridge’s daughter, are you not?” he said by way of greeting.

“Indeed, my lord.” She smiled her most enchanting smile. She’d proven quite popular during her come-out season, and she desperately needed for Will’s father to be charmed by her.

“My son tells me you’ve been entertaining a surplus of offers.”

Will had spoken to his father about her? Hope stirred in her heart for the first time in weeks. “Mr. Naismith flatters me.”

He frowned. “Will? No, no.” He said it as though brushing away a bothersome insect. “I was referring to my son Giles, Viscount Torrington. He is my heir, as I am sure you must be aware.”

“Oh yes, of course.” She gulped a breath. “Is Mr. Naismith about? I haven’t seen him thus far this Season.”

“Will?” He frowned. “What business could a gel like you possibly have with him?”

She swallowed. “You understand that he is a particular friend of my brother, Cosmo.”

“Will is not about.” The words were dry, almost unfriendly. But then his tone brightened. “Torrington is present, though. He should take you for a turn before your crush of suitors claims all of your dances.”

The last thing she desired was to add Will’s brother to her growing coterie of admirers. There was only one man she wished to be admired by, if only she could manage to run him to ground. Employing a small lie to achieve that goal was necessary at the moment.

“I ask after Mr. Naismith because he left his spectacles at Langtry the last time he visited us there. I’ve sent letters telling him that I have them, but he has not responded. Perhaps,” she ventured, “he has not received them.”

The earl’s eyes narrowed as he studied her, and her cheeks heated under the inspection. “A young gentlewoman such as yourself has no business corresponding with the likes of Will Naismith. You understand”—he spoke the words carefully—“that he is not a gentleman.”

Her insides burned with indignation at the father’s denigration of his own son. As if she needed to be told Will had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. It was little wonder Will had chosen to spend summers and holidays with her family rather than his own. “Mr. Naismith is a friend to our family.”

“Why are you writing him letters?” The earl’s face darkened. “I hope that boy has not overstepped.”

She straightened her spine. “I can assure you Mr. Naismith is too fine a gentleman to do such a thing.” He hadn’t overstepped because she’d wanted everything he’d done to her. Even now, her body craved him as desperately as her heart.

“I can assure you that he has received all your letters,” the earl said. “I personally saw to it that his mail was forwarded to him.”

Forwarded? “Is he abroad, then?”

“Yes, if you are well acquainted with Will, then you well comprehend he is always off on one numismatic pursuit or another.”

He’d gone off in search of coins at a time like this? “Perhaps my letters have not reached him.”

“As I said, I can assure you they have. Will himself thanked me for forwarding them in a letter to me well over a fortnight ago.”

The earl’s words struck her like blows to the heart. Will had received her desperate pleas and had ignored them. Summoning her brightest smile, she made her excuses and fled Huntington as soon as she was able.

She found a quiet alcove and slid down onto a velvet slipper chair, fear and worry consuming her at the scandal and disgrace facing her. She couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her father, and if she confided in her brother, Cosmo, he would surely run Will through with his saber.

Raw hurt twisted its dagger into her heart. She bit her lip, fighting back the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. If she let them fall, she feared they’d never stop.

She cradled her belly, already experiencing an overwhelming love for the child that grew there. She must do whatever she had to in order to assure her child’s proper place in the world. This child would not be born a bastard as its father had. She would see to it.

She could turn to Tristan, even though he was like a brother to her, and the thought of allowing him the liberties she’d enjoyed with Will made her stomach queasy.

“There you are, Lady Elinor.” The gently teasing voice of Rodolphe Laurent, the French
vicomte
who had emerged as one of her most ardent admirers, interrupted her thoughts. “Are you seeking refuge from all the adulation being showered upon you this evening?”

Laurent would never be Will, but she did enjoy his quick wit and wicked jokes. As she looked up into his smiling dark eyes, a palatable solution to her dilemma presented itself. Tapping down the pain in her heart, she batted her eyelashes.

“I may have many admirers, but there is only one who I truly favor. Won’t you join me?”

The carriage hit a rough spot. Elle swore softly to herself. She didn’t understand what had motivated the earl to lie to her, but she should have instinctively known Will would never desert her. She’d not only lost faith in him, she’d abandoned both Will and their daughter. How he would hate her once he learned the truth.

And she would tell him. She had no choice in the matter. Will had an undeniable right to know he’d fathered a daughter.

But how would she tell him? And when?

Two days after their meeting at the restaurant, Will stood in the afternoon shadows of the building next to Gerard Duret’s residence, with his arms crossed over his chest, lightly tapping his right foot. Elle had entered the domicile about an hour ago, according to the man Will had assigned to follow her. Once he’d received word of her whereabouts, he had promptly arrived on the scene and sent his man home.

His curiosity—both professional and personal—was piqued. What the devil was she up to? An amorous afternoon tryst or was the meeting professional in nature? Maybe she was reporting her findings about him to Duret.

He’d given her a little to work with, just enough to see how she’d react. Telling her he’d gone to the country when he knew Lucian had mentioned he was in Jersey. He’d seen it when she’d caught the lie, because Elle wore her thoughts on her face. Her mouth had twitched and her eyes had widened slightly. She never could hide her true feelings.

He shifted his weight. His position at the side of the dwelling afforded him a view of both the front and back of the home. Duret’s manservant had exited about twenty minutes ago, and some sort of delivery had been made shortly after his departure. Elle had been inside with Duret for more than an hour.

A movement in a window well above street level drew his attention. Someone threw the casements open, and a petite young woman dressed in a simple navy dress climbed over and fell to the ground before he had a chance to react. The girl sprang to her feet, brushing off her skirts. The wench seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t immediately place her.

She looked up at the open window she’d just jumped from. “Are you coming or are you going to have a cup of tea first?” she called up in a harsh whisper.

A woman’s voice hissed back through the window. “Perhaps I should be writing your dismissal letter, you impudent girl.” Elle. A subtly rounded arse wrapped in peach silk filled the open space at the window. One stocking-clad leg fell over the edge, followed by another, causing her dress to ride up, revealing a pair of shapely calves and the backs of smooth pale thighs he’d recognize anywhere.

The girl, who he realized was Elle’s lady’s maid, snorted. “I’ll definitely be looking for a new situation if you stay up there all afternoon and Monsieur Général gets a hold of you.”

“Stop making a scene, Sophie,” Elle called down in low, aggravated tones. “Go and wait for me by the mews. I’m coming.”

Will straightened. What the deuce was Elle up to? She had a tenuous grip on the casement and was about get herself seriously injured.

He darted from his observation spot and vaulted over the waist-level stone wall separating the two properties. Angling through the bushes, he bolted over to where Sophie stood looking up at her mistress hanging perilously from the window. The servant girl turned her head and her eyes widened. “Do as your mistress says,” he spoke quickly and quietly. “I’ll see she gets down safely.”

The girl looked as if she were about to protest but then, after throwing another dubious look at her mistress’s dangling form, shrugged her shoulders and said, “I suppose you getting your hands on her is better than Duret.”

“Thank you.”

“But not by much,” she said as she moved toward the mews.

Will looked up at Elle. “What the devil are you doing?” he called up to her in a low undertone. “Are you trying to break your neck?”

“Will?” Her head jerked out of the window to peer down at him, surprise evident in her widened eyes. “What are you doing down there?”

“At the moment, I’m looking up your skirts,” he said impatiently. “What are you doing?”

“Are you spying on me?”

“I’m looking out for you. Why are you dangling out of Duret’s window? You could break a leg if you fall.”

“I suspect that will be far more tolerable than what that frog would like to do to me. Especially after today.”

Had she crossed Duret? “Why, what happened?”

She twisted her neck around to assess her distance from the ground. “Oh, it is quite a bit farther down than I thought.”

He shifted so that he stood directly beneath her. “Go ahead and drop,” he whispered, the words sharp and urgent. If Duret was after her, he had to get her away immediately. “I’ll catch you.”

She bit her plump lower lip. “I am not at all good with heights.”

“There is a proper way to fall in order to minimize the risk of injury.” He tried to keep from staring up at her lithe, stocking-clad limbs. “Bend your legs once you let go,” he advised. “Try to land on your toes and whatever you do, don’t lock your knees.”

She shot him a suspicious look. “Why does it sound like you’ve fallen from great heights before?”

“Because I have,” he said, recalling the time in Germany when he’d raced across rooftops to avoid capture, finally leaping from one structure into a moving cart padded with hay bound for market. He peered up at Elle. She wasn’t nearly as far up as he’d been that day. Gesturing with his hand, he beckoned her to jump. “Come on, then, we haven’t got all day.”

She shot him a questioning look from over her shoulder. “How in Hades do you expect to catch me?”

“I’m going to help break your fall.”

She glanced into the window. “Maybe I should climb back in and take my chances with Duret.”

“Oh, for devil’s sake.” He had no way of knowing where Duret was at the moment or what had occurred that resulted in her current predicament, but it wouldn’t be long before someone spotted Elle’s bum hanging out of the man’s window. “Come down now before you get us both killed.”

“Oh dear.” She exhaled loudly through her nostrils as if trying to draw in some courage. “Heights really do give me quite a fright.”

“Perhaps you should have considered that before you climbed halfway out the window.”

“Castigating me isn’t going to make me less fearful of jumping,” she whispered back furiously.

He should leave her to her fate. She was, in all likelihood, a traitor. But no matter what she might have done, this was still Elle, and he could no more abandon her than he could saw off his right arm.

It was time to take matters into his own hands, before they were discovered. He looked up, eyeing her trim ankles and long dangling legs. The peach cotton half boots on her feet wouldn’t do much to break her fall, but it couldn’t be helped. He bent his knees and leapt upward, grabbing her ankles to bring her down. She squeaked and lost her grip on the window, falling and landing on his chest with a hard thud, knocking the air from his lungs.

“What did you do that for?” she asked angrily, swatting at his chest before getting gingerly to her feet. “You could have killed me!”

His lungs heaved while waiting to refill. He gasped once and then again before the air found its way back into his chest. Exhaling with relief, he sprang to his feet in a quick, stealthy movement and crouched down, running his hands under her skirts and over her legs and ankles to check for injury. “Are you unharmed?”